


A Sense of Something Moving To and Fro

by unknownsister



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Friendship, Ghosts, Happy Ending, Haunted Houses, M/M, Sherlock is a ghost, Teen John Watson
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-12
Packaged: 2019-01-27 19:15:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12588732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unknownsister/pseuds/unknownsister
Summary: John explores an abandoned house, but it's not as empty as he thought.A ghost story.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [intricatearticulation (chemma66)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/chemma66/gifts).



> Title from the poem "Haunted Houses" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. 
> 
> I just really love ghost stories & horror in general. This didn't turn out quite as spooky as I wanted it to, but it's good enough for Halloween! The next parts should be posted within the week, but I wanted to go ahead & get out the first today in time for spooks. 
> 
> Some things to pay attention to: 
> 
> That major character death warning is up there - Sherlock is a ghost when John meets him. Sherlock is dead & not coming back to life, which might be a deal-breaker for some. 
> 
> John meets Sherlock when he is 16 & Sherlock is stuck at age 30. There is no romance between them until John is older, so I did not apply the underage tag.
> 
> There is definitely, 100% a happy ending. 
> 
> Okay - thanks goes to Rowan for tremendous help with keeping me in present tense + great beta-ing. This is a gift for Chelsea, the best weirdo I know <3 
> 
> It's only Halloween for 30 more minutes where I live, so while I can still say it - HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

_All houses wherein men have lived and died_  
_Are haunted houses. Through the open doors_  
_The harmless phantoms on their errands glide,_  
_With feet that make no sound upon the floors._

_We meet them at the door-way, on the stair,_  
_Along the passages they come and go,_  
_Impalpable impressions on the air,_  
_A sense of something moving to and fro._

_-"Haunted Houses" by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow_

 

**October, 1987**

John Watson, 16, grips the handlebars of his bike with white-knuckled fists. His heart gallops as his friends jeer behind him, their dares ringing in his ears. Before him stands The House.

It’s been abandoned since long before John was born. Local kids risked tetanus and broken limbs every Halloween by sneaking in and swigging gross, warm beer. There used to be a fancy name for The House, but it’s long been lost. John’s mother told it to him once, when she warned him to never set foot inside the rusting gates.

“Come on, John! Either go inside or admit you’re a scared little sissy.”

John scowls over his shoulder at Ethan Ridge, 17, the leader of their merry gang of boys. They picked John up easily enough when his family moved here from London a year ago. He still doesn’t feel quite at ease in the group, not like with his old friends. This is a good opportunity to prove to them just how cool he can be.

He takes a deep breath and faces the house again. White paint clings in dingy patches on exposed bricks while most of the windows gape with broken glass, a few torn curtains rotting on their rings. A local committee of well-doers locked the front gates with thick chains and boarded up the front door, but John knows of a few ways inside.

The whistles and shouts die down behind him as he pops the kickstand on his bike near the gate and scrambles over the top. He doesn’t know if any of them have actually been past this point. Risking a glance back, John smiles at their white faces and knows this will probably be worth it if he doesn’t die.

The house isn’t quite as big up close, more like a country home. At one time, it was more isolated, sitting on a few acres of land. Over time the town had come to meet it. It still rests on the furthest edges of the town lines, but John won’t be too far from civilization if he starts screaming bloody murder.

Not that he ever would! Of course not. John doesn’t believe in ghosts. Or demons. Or angels. Anything really. Nothing to be afraid of except maybe some overlarge rats in the attic carrying rabies.

John walks to the back entrance which is also boarded up, but looks for a kitchen door. Ethan told him his brother and some older boys had pried the boards off the door a few years ago, but it has since grown over with the wild vines covering a good portion of the exterior.

“Look beside the broken steps, there’s a pile of bricks on the left. You should still be able to find the hole where the doorknob was.”

He yanks at tough ropes of vines until he finds the rusted hinges and the black eye where the lost doorknob lived. Kicking open the door reveals darkness, silent and watching him. John grips the straps of his backpack and swings it around to his front, finding the heavy torch he brought for safety. Even though the sun is shining and his t-shirt is soaked with sweat from riding his bike with his jacket on, he suddenly feels cold and very small.

He can do this.

His light clicks to life and pushes the darkness back as he steps over cracked wood and cement to enter the kitchen. Little light filters through the filthy windows, but with his torch, he finds a rotten walk-in pantry, long given over to vermin. A collapsed table and lonely chairs in another corner are closer to the hob. He hears the faint squeak of bats in the chimney.

John’s not certain how long he’s supposed to stay in the house to prove his bravery, but as he comes into the main house, he finds his fear lessening, even if his senses stay on high alert. Curiosity takes over the farther he wanders. The House is much older than he thought, or perhaps it’s been abandoned for longer than any of them guessed. Ruined portraits line a hallway and he feels drawn to them, squinting to make out their faces and Edwardian hairstyles. Were these the people who last lived here?

He comes to a large open room with almost floor to ceiling windows, complete with inlaid seats overlooking the jungle garden. A chunk of the ceiling crumbled to the floor and he can see the first storey. Sagging couches and once-beautiful chairs moulder around the room - this must have been a parlor. John’s attention catches on another portrait, fallen to the floor beside the hearth. Carefully stepping over the rubble, he brushes off dirt when he picks it up and stares in surprise.

The painting is surprisingly intact. A young man stares back at him, haughty and high-cheeked. His dark curls don’t match his formal dress, pushed impatiently to the side and brushing over his intelligent eyes. John takes a moment to admire the long-dead artist who captured such emotion on canvas, his eyes trailing down the long throat, the broad shoulders bunched with contained energy. He wonders about the man’s name.

It’s the eyes that keep drawing him back though. The longer John looks, the more a sense of unease settles on him and he remembers his vulnerable back turned to the vast, empty room. As soon as he recognizes the feeling, it turns to one of being watched and he stiffens, straightens, lowers the painting slowly. Once it’s propped on the mantlepiece, John looks over his shoulder at the long dark hallway of portraits.

No one is there.

The tension doesn’t leave John even as he reasons with himself. Of course no one was there - this is an abandoned house. Not even tramps like to come in here. He firmly ignores the little voice asking him just why _do_ they avoid it? He soldiers on and explores deeper into the house, finding three more rooms on the ground floor, including a study.

It’s here he finds himself lost in time as he discovers a grand wooden desk. With a few pries of his pocket knife, he gets the top drawer open and finds neat stacks of ancient letters, tied in bundles. Fearing he should be wearing gloves, he decides to open them anyway, curiosity winning over a sense of history. He drifts to a window and clears a patch on the floor to sit and read, his torch unlit beside him.

He’s finishing a letter from a Lord Holmes, dated 1908, to his cousin in London asking about her new child when he hears … something. John’s blood freezes then rushes, kicking his heart too quickly and it jumps to miss a beat. It wasn’t just an old house noise - it was a deliberate noise, of that he’s certain. His hearing stretches painfully, straining for another sound.

**THUMP**

Above John’s head, someone (thing?) pushed over a very heavy object. A fine layer of dust falls from the ceiling and John is on his feet before the last motes settle. He scrambles for the flashlight and flips the switch, despite already being able to see his surroundings with light from the windows. He points it to the four corners then waits.

John’s feet refuse to move, his trainers glued to the spot. Fight or flight doesn’t come into play and he stands there, breathing hard, eyes on the ceiling. If another sound were to happen just then, John might find his senses and run out the way he came. The first storey stays silent and a different feeling mixes potently with John’s fear.

Ever since he was a child, John hasn’t known how to keep out of trouble. He always climbed one branch too high in the tree, pushed his bike a little too fast, testing and feeling out every edge he encountered. When these choices come to John - should he stop here? Where it’s safe? - he finds himself stepping forward, pushing through fear and experiencing life in blazing glory for a few moments. Colors are more vivid, he feels his heart beating in his breast like a living creature, thriving on his moment of danger and vitality.

John dreads and loves this feeling. It’s coming upon him now. What made that noise upstairs?

His feet unstick and he walks, not quickly but deliberately, towards the dilapidated staircase leading to the next floor. The pitch black landing does nothing to quell the anxious knot in his stomach, but he reasons with himself. Here’s his torch, he’ll be able to see. He’s the fastest sprinter on the rugby team - he’ll be able to run if he needs to. There haven’t been any stories of people dying in this house, so he gives himself the extra push to take that first step. It creaks dangerously beneath him and he takes care to test his weight on each one before moving upward.

It feels like he’s been chewing cotton balls by the time he reaches the dark landing. He’s almost light-headed with fear and adrenaline, but a fierce curiosity burns him up and he estimates where he was sitting on the ground floor in relation to the open doors before him.

A thick, musty smell pushes at his nose when he picks the right room - molded horse glue and decaying paper. October wind pushes against the tattered curtains that block the feeble light. Books lie jumbled on the floor, dozens of titles with broken spines and yellowed pages. Some still lean tiredly on the bookshelves that line each of the walls.

John shines his light in an arc, covering every inch of the room. There is no one here, but John does not feel alone. What made the noise?

He takes a step over the threshold and the temperature drops sharply. A sigh leaks from the left corner and he whips his light there. Dust and shadows. Perhaps it was the wind?

Another mumble from the right and John is properly scared now. He can’t move the light fast enough before a thunderstorm of whispers rises around him and lifts his hair on end.

_Why are you here?_

Every horror movie John has laughed through, every gory comic he read under the sheets, every ghost story he heard in the school-yard comes to his mind’s eye, flooding his imagination with what this voice could belong to. His only truly clear thought is, _I’ve been lied to._

He doesn’t answer right away. It takes him a moment to unstick his jaw, to clench his fingers tighter and speak to the dark.

“I was dared,” he manages. His eyes dart back and forth, watching the daylight fade unnaturally in the window.

A dozen chuckles, deep and dark. Behind him now, pushing him further into the room.

_Do you feel daring now?_

Not particularly, John thinks. He knows he’ll remember this moment for the rest of his (hopefully) long life and _daring_ is not how he would describe it. Monumentally stupid, maybe.

“I don’t.”

Cold air winds around his ankles, prickling his skin where the cuffs of his jeans leave bare flesh. He ignores it.

“Who are you?”

The chill bites further as it reaches his knees now, gripping him. The voices sound close and very far away.

_I am no one._

His backpack is lifting, the straps catching under his armpits and John struggles not to scream.

“Are - are you a ghost?”

He drops a little and the voice becomes more singular, more masculine, less distant.

_What else would I be?_

A line of indignance interrupts the terror for a moment as John’s lifted to his tiptoes.

“Well, you could be demon. Or a - a poltergeist. A witch.”

_A poltergeist is a ghost._

Whispers in the corners sound like skittering bugs. The light is almost completely gone and John’s light starts to flicker.

“You know what I mean!” John gasps, his breath punched from his lungs as his feet finally leave the floor and he’s floating - he’s bloody _floating._ His unseen ghost-witch-demon pulls him towards the center of the room and John hangs uselessly, gripping his torch for dear life.

Something catches at the corner of his eye, a movement and he turns towards it. There! A person! For a split second, they stroll, then fade back to shadow.

_Do I look like a demon?_

The silhouette walks past the opposite side of John and he swivels too slowly to get a good look.

“If you would stand still, I could tell you.”

Oh, that was a mistake.

A face appears before his own, as he floats a meter off the ground, nauseatingly sudden. The instinctive yell leaves John’s throat before he can think and he attempts wiggling backwards, held in place by the straps of his bag and gravity. It serves to sway him closer to the faintly glowing outline of a man and John’s arms shoot out in panic, his chest stricken in painful fear.

_What am I, then?_

John can’t breathe, squeezing his eyes shut as if it could make the ghost go away. His mind refuses to handle what it’s seeing, abandoning logic. Why didn’t he run? Why did he come here? He should have left when he felt he was being watched, looking at the painting.

The painting!

A cog clicks and he opens his eyes, still rigid with terror but braver with knowledge.

“You’re the man in the painting.”

The face before him flickers and solidifies, fading back and forth as the aristocratic features crease in confusion. John’s swaying stops.

“What painting?” the man asks, the echoes and whispers dropped. The moment is so absurd and turnabout from what just happened that John nearly laughs. Maybe that was hysteria, actually. He’s having a chat with a ghost up in the air.

“Ground floor, the parlor-ish room. You’re the only portrait in that room. I recognize you.”

John’s feet touch the floor and the man before him vanishes. His backpack drops, nearly overbalancing him and he pinwheels to catch himself. His light stops flickering and the sun seeps into the room again, slowly stripping John’s night vision.

“What?” John looks around in confusion, completely thrown. He spins to the doorway and sees a dim figure pass it, swift and translucent.

“Wait!” He’s not sure why he cries out or why he rushes to the hall. The man isn’t there but John hears a creak to the left and spots the man’s feet disappearing up a rotten set of stairs to the top floor, spectral feet barely touching the wood.

He ignores that same voice in his head, the one screaming that this is a second chance for him to get away, that he’s being lured to his death. The other urge is louder - the _why_ has always bothered John more than the consequences of finding out what he must know.

The stairs leading up have a giant hole in the middle and John leaps without thinking, nearly falling straight through as he grips the bannister on the other side, wobbling dangerously. He bounds after the trailing light - the ghost doesn’t really look like he’s walking. He shows up a few feet further down the hallway, almost walking in place, before vanishing again. John keeps up until he’s in an attic room, stopping short as he takes in his surroundings.

Sunlight shines in through yet another broken window, this one in the slanted ceiling. The wooden floor below is warped by water damage, but the rest of the room looks surprisingly neat, excepting dust.

Amongst scales and pipes, glass jars and beakers row up across a tabletop to his left, fluid long congealed and cracked and disintegrated in the bottoms. Stacks of books and papers crowd a desk to his left. It’s some kind of lab, to John’s understanding. Before he can touch any of the equipment before him, the ghost speaks from nowhere.

“Why are you here?”

Strangely, John does not feel nearly as afraid as he should.

“Think we went over that part already.”

The door creaks behind him and he turns to watch it open further, hinges barely holding it upright.

“Then your dare is done and here is the door.”

John considers for a moment, then - “No.”

A crackle of electricity sparks in near the door and John sees the ghost clearly for a moment, lit up and sparking blue.

“What do you mean ‘no’? Are you not afraid for your life? I’m giving you an opportunity to leave before I lose my temper.”

Somehow the petulance and bravado John hears in the ghost’s voice quells the danger alarm bells and he steps closer.

“But I don’t want to leave yet. Why did you run away when I mentioned the portrait?”

The ghost appears behind the equipment table. “Because I don’t like it. Now leave.” He fades again.

John turns from the door, growing frustrated. “Would you stop bouncing around like a bloody rabbit and speak to me?”

Woah, uh. He’s not sure where that came from. Who even talks to a _ghost_ that way? But it’s irritating. John wants to see him, to get a good look, compare the painting to the subject. This person is dead and John’s not sure how he’s talking to him, but he’s suddenly filled with a million questions.  
It works - the ghost stops wavering and John sees him - really sees him - for the first time, as if he were flesh and blood before him.

He’s definitely the man in the portrait - same sharp features, downturned mouth, snapping eyes. His clothes aren’t similar at all, much less formal. He wears a soft white button down with a rounded collar undone, high-waisted woolen trousers with no shoes. He looks disheveled and not very spooky at all, now that John gets the look of him.

But he’s DEAD, his mind yells. John swallows the lump in his throat and meets the man’s eyes. He’s older than John, perhaps in his 30s. John wonders how he died.

“Thank you.”

A terrible silence drops between them. What do you say to a ghost? But John notices the ghost seems just as interested in him. He’s studying John’s clothes very closely, looking over every inch of him.

“What year is it?” the ghost asks.

“1987.”

The ghost’s face would have paled if he could have gotten any paler, John hazards. The look he wears says enough about the shock he’s feeling.

“Well.” The silence falls between them again and John moves a bit closer, inexplicably drawn now that he feels danger is not as imminent as before. He seems to have spooked the ghost and it makes him smile.

“My name is John. What’s yours?” He’s facing the man on the other side of the table now.

After a moment, the ghost reluctantly tells him. “Sherlock.”

John has to look up to him; he’s a very tall ghost. He keeps his voice calm and neutral, downplaying his racing thoughts.

“So you _are_ a ghost,” John confirms, waving a hand vaguely in front of Sherlock.

“Yes, I’m very much deceased,” Sherlock deadpans, rolling his eyes back and sticking out his tongue. John laughs and surprises them both. The silence returns as they stare at each other, but it’s not as terrible as before - more thoughtful.

Sherlock breaks first. “So, John.”

“Hm?”

“Why are you … so curious? Aren’t you afraid to die?”

John considers the question. “I don’t think you’re going to kill me. I would be dead already. I don’t actually feel very afraid of you now that I know your name.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and John marvels again at how _alive_ he seems, despite knowing the opposite is true. He feels like he could reach out and touch a solid human before him.

“To answer your question, I’ve never met a ghost before. I didn’t think ghosts existed before this afternoon. You’re an outstanding part of my day so far,” John grins. “Well, apart from the scaring the piss out of me downstairs.”

Sherlock brightens at this last statement, preening comically enough that John can’t really wrap his mind around what’s happening.

“I haven’t had the opportunity to scare anyone in quite some time.” The silent _I’m pleased_ was implied.

John can’t help it - he breaks and giggles spill out of him. He shoves his hand against his mouth to stop the flow and tears form. He laughs until he’s gasping and plopping down on the floor, a dust cloud floating up on impact. Sherlock peers over the table at him, confused.

“What on earth are you doing?”

The merriment settles and John wipes at the corners of his eyes.

“This is the fucking weirdest thing I’ve ever done and absolutely no one is going to believe me.” He lets out another chuckle as he thinks about it again.

Sherlock hesitates but comes around the edge of the table. He bends as if to sit across from John, but he floats just above the ground, legs crossed tailor style.

“I admit this is strange for me as well.” He grips his ankles where they cross in front of him.

“You must have seen some weird things with -” John waves his hand at a loss. “However long you’ve been here.”

Sherlock runs a hand through the hair above his ear, looking away. “I’ve been here for 75 years. I wasn’t certain until you told me the date just now. Time has a way of distorting for me.”

John overrides his shock and does the mental math. Sherlock died in 1912.  
“And no, I haven’t seen very much as I’m confined to this house,” Sherlock concludes.

75 years was such a long time. John thinks about all the things he’s learned in his short life and boggles at his own existence just long enough to freak himself out. He shakes his head and leans forward, focused on Sherlock.

“You’ve missed, uh, some things. A lot of things actually. Did you have electricity when you were alive?”

The glare is all John needs to know the answer to that was yes. “What about cars?”

That made for a more thoughtful response from Sherlock. “They’ve been around since right after I was born.”

“When was that?”

“January 6th, 1882.”

John might lose his lunch with how hard his stomach swoops.

“Holy shit. That’s. Holy shit.” He can tell he’s making Sherlock uncomfortable.

“Well, how about you? When were you born?”

“March 31st, 1971.”

“This is abhorrent. Change of subject. Show me what’s in your satchel.”

Startled, John doesn’t hesitate, pulling his bag around after he sets his torch on the ground. The zipper is loud in the open room and he pulls out a few things while Sherlock pretends not too overly interested in the contents.

An apple, his composition notebook with homework he should be doing, a G.I Joe comic, his Walkman -

“What is that?” Sherlock points at the bright red Walkman and his headphones.

“It’s a cassette player. A Walkman.” John points at the silver writing down the edge. He pops it open and pulls out the tape, _Sign O’ The Times_ by Prince. He was a little embarrassed that he liked it so much after he stole it from Harry. But Sherlock wouldn’t know a damn thing about Prince or how much John might stare at the magazine photo of him in the Purple Rain suit tucked in his nightstand drawer.

“This is a cassette. It’s made of, um, plastic? It holds music. Like they had records before this, vinyl, I mean. You had records?”

“Of a kind. Round, black, flat discs for gramophones.”

“Yes, like that!” John snaps his fingers. “How about you give this a try?”

He holds out the Walkman, but frowns when Sherlock makes no move to take it.

“I… cannot hold it.” Sherlock looks embarrassed and upset, which was the last thing John wanted. “I must concentrate to touch physical objects and the longer I hold them, the further I - fade is the best word for it. I disappear for a time and come back.”

John pulls his Walkman back, undeterred. He clears his throat, “I’ll just have to hold it for you then. Come here.”

He hits play, turns the volume all the way up, and pulls the headphones apart so there’s enough space for Sherlock to place his head close to the ear pieces. Sherlock looks confused at first, until he realizes where the sound is coming from. He floats over (fucking hell), pulling his legs down and underneath himself as he folds closer to listen.

The synth and bass John can hear second-hand makes Sherlock’s nose wrinkle in distaste, but John’s too focused on what’s happening to him with Sherlock this close. He’s definitely cool, but not unpleasantly so. The strangest thing is where John has his fingers close to Sherlock’s head. It’s like static electricity, except stronger, arcing between the curls and his fingers. The sensation makes his whole hand tingle and goosebumps break out along his forearms.

They hold in this position until it’s time to flip the tape and John pulls his arms back, rubbing the sore muscles of his upper arms. Sherlock says nothing, but stares at the Walkman. John doesn’t ask him what he thinks, because even a music novice like him knows sounds have changed drastically since the turn of the century. It’s a lot to take in.

Looking up, he notices the sky fading (naturally this time). “Hey, Sherlock. I need to go home. It’s getting dark.”

For some reason, when Sherlock looks up, John feels tugged under a wave of overwhelming sadness and melancholy. There’s a deeper grief, just over the precipice, but he can’t look there. He gasps and Sherlock blinks, coming back to himself.

“I’m sorry, John. Sometimes I can’t control what happens around me.” He stands and stretches, as if his muscles would have cramped from sitting in one place for too long. His feet touch the floor this time.

John packs up his backpack, recovering from whatever the fuck that was he just felt. He never wants to feel that way again and if that’s the way Sherlock was feeling…

“How about I come back tomorrow?” John asks very carefully, not looking up yet.

Sherlock says nothing for so long that John is forced to gauge his reaction. A small smile grows on Sherlock’s face and it warms John up inside. He knows he made the right call.

“I would look forward to that. I’ll expect you tomorrow.”

And just like that, Sherlock vanishes.

“We’ll have to work on your goodbyes,” John mumbles under his breath and carefully makes his way to the ground floor.

His bike is where he left it. On a hunch, he turns back to the house and looks at the top floor window, the room where he chatted with a ghost. He sees Sherlock there, watching him, and throws him a tiny wave before hopping on his bike. John doesn’t see Sherlock give his own small wave back.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A thousand thanks to Chelsea & Rowan for their beautiful beta-ing.
> 
> A short bit, then on to Sherlock's POV after this. Thanks for your patience!

The neighborhood gang sits outside a shop front after school the next day.

“We thought you were dead!” squawks Ethan, spraying biscuit crumbs on John’s shirt. “You disappeared for hours and no one stays in there that long, mate.”

John wipes his shirt off. “So you left me for dead? Ran home to your mothers and didn’t tell anyone where I’d gone?”

The group of boys stop chatting and every face turns towards John with a guilty look. Some mutter excuses, but Ethan smacks John on the back.

“You’re not dead though! So it doesn’t matter what we did. Everything turned out alright.” He grins as if that makes everything okay and the rest of them go back to their conversations.

The smile on John’s face strains and while he carries on with other topics, he reevaluates his tenuous friendship with these neighborhood kids. It’s tough to be the new guy, but John’s been here a year now - maybe he should look for people he actually likes to hang out with.

Or someone. He looks to the east, mind turning to The House. With his homework done, John has a few hours before the sun goes down to visit his new friend. Well, he _says_ friend…

“I’ve got to get back. I’ll see you tomorrow,” John says, standing up from the kerb. A few wave him off and he grabs his bike. He avoids the glare of the shop owner as he passes the front window and books it toward the edge of town.

Yesterday, his mother tutted over his filthy clothes when he made it home.

“John,” his mother had stopped him on his way upstairs to his room. “Is everything alright? You seem a little … excited.” He made up an excuse about winning a rugby scrimmage, but he could tell by her look that she was still suspicious.

Before leaving for school, he made sure to have an alibi, telling his mother about the bike races the neighborhood boys had set up. He packed a fresh shirt in his bag, along with one of his history textbooks, a few cassettes with his Walkman, and his dad’s Polaroid camera.

The street is empty and his breath sounds loud while he pumps the pedals of his bike. No one stops him climbing the gate to reach The House. He covered the door with vines again after he left yesterday, just in case. Knocking them to the side, he enters the kitchen with less trepidation than before.

He gets to the main hall before calling out, “Hellooo? Sherlock?”

Sherlock appears right in front of him and it knocks John off his feet in surprise. He clutches his chest as he stands, swearing and trying to slow his racing heart.

“Fuck, Sherlock! Warn a man would you? I think you took ten years off my life there,” John grouses. To his credit, Sherlock looks contrite, but he doesn’t apologize.

“Hello, John. I’m glad you came back.” He picks at the rolled up cuff on his white shirt, feet still bare but oblivious to the chill seeping up through the floors.

John crosses his arms. “Why wouldn’t I have? I said I would.”

Sherlock scoffs and begins towards the stairs. “You are talking to the undead, John. Most sensible people would have sold their house and left the country by now.”

John follows. “I’m not most people. Or very sensible, actually.”

“I can agree with that,” Sherlock says as he smiles over his shoulder. He doesn’t bother making John comfortable with normal human movements and appears at the top of the stairs, yawning. “I haven’t got all day.”

Starting the treacherous journey up, John rolls his eyes. “You have nothing _but_ time, you idiot.” He looks up in time to catch Sherlock’s stung expression of being called an idiot. Reaching the top, they continue their walk towards what John thinks of as the lab. “I don’t really think you’re an idiot. Maybe I could bring a plank of wood with me next time to make this staircase a little easier.”

“Next time?”

John hops over the hole and continues up the second staircase. “Of course. You’ll have loads of questions, I bet. I won’t get to them all today.”

“Yes, schoolmaster,” Sherlock chimes.

John almost turns to give him a swat as they reach the lab door. Would his hand pass right through? He’s not sure if it’s rude to ask, so he sits down on the floor and starts unloading his backpack. He lays out the new items and Sherlock eyes them curiously. He points at the camera first.

“What is this?”

“An instant camera. Polaroid,” John answers, picking it up. He pops the front up, revealing the flash and holds it up to his eye. This was the item he was most eager to use today - would Sherlock show up on film?

He can see him well enough through the lens. Sherlock looks alarmed.

“What are you doing?”

“I’m going to take your photo. I know you had cameras when you were alive, I looked it up.”

“Yes, but they didn’t look anything like … whatever you’re aiming at me.”

John grins behind the camera. “Say ‘cheese’!”

Sherlock does not and the flash whites the room for a split-second. The camera churns mechanically and the square of film pushes from the bottom. John plucks it out and starts fanning it.

“I’ve heard this makes the development go faster, but I’m not sure that’s true.”

Sherlock watches him in equal parts confusion and fascination. “Explain.”

So John does. He tells Sherlock about how the process works, and how cameras are portable now, which takes them to video cameras, then to movies.

“Oh fuck, you would _love_ movies, Sherlock. I bet you just had those shit ones with no sounds back then. They’ve got explosions and special effects and OH! There’s _The Terminator_. I love that movie.”

“That sounds dreadful. What does it terminate?”

Halfway through the plot of the _greatest action film of all time_ , John checks his watch and realizes they’re running out of time for today. “I’ll get back to that story, or maybe I can just show it to you sometime.”

“I’m not sure how that would work,” Sherlock says with a small smile.

Oblivious, John holds up the textbook - _History of the World, 5th ed_. “Okay, we got through some fun stuff. Now it’s time for homework.”

He starts flipping through, not sure where to begin. He turns to Sherlock, thoughtful.

“Should we just start at the end and go backwards?”

“That would be more confusing than helpful. I wasn’t much of a historian when I was alive, so perhaps it’s best just to start from the beginning.”

They start with dinosaurs & the Paleolithic era, but John soon discovers how quickly Sherlock gets bored, even with John skimming for the good bits. They make it to Mesopotamia before Sherlock groans, “I’ve been in existence for a century and this is by far the most dull thing I’ve ever done.”

John closes the book and gathers his things. “I have to go. Maybe I can find something that will interest you more.”

“Bring me science books. They must still teach chemistry.”

“Unfortunately,” John sighs. He stands and Sherlock points to the floor.

“John, your photograph.”

John bends to pick it up, holding a corner. It’s fully developed and shows nothing but an empty room. Sherlock bends over the photo and examines it pensively. “Shame. I would have quite liked to know what I look like.”

John tucks the photo into his back pocket. “Hmm, how about this instead?”

He lifts the camera and turns it on himself, giving the lens a goofy smile. He sticks out his tongue and crosses his eyes when the flash goes off and, giggling, he rubs the spots from his vision.

The photo develops as they wait a moment, then John takes it over to the equipment table to prop it against some vials.

“There. To keep you company.”

Sherlock stares at the photo then at John, face expressionless. The quiet stretches to an uncomfortable point.

He wisely decides to change subject. “I’m not sure when I’ll be able to come back. Maybe the weekend. I don’t want anyone to become suspicious with me disappearing all the time.”

Sherlock waves his hand. “It doesn’t matter. Clearly I’ll still be here.”

Adjusting his straps, John smiles and leaves the way he came.

 

**January, 1988**

“I wish you had electricity so I could bring a space heater,” John gripes.

“Excuse me for not having proper wiring, I’ll call the electrician. Oh wait, I’m dead.”

John throws the balled up wrapper from his sandwich at Sherlock’s head and laughs when it passes right through. Sherlock scowls.

“ _If you will_ , carry on with your reading, John. We were just at the best part.”

Subduing his laughter, John thumbs open the ancient copy of _Treasure Island_ , picked up from the library downstairs. His initial meeting with Sherlock there was frightening, but now the room is an interesting time capsule. Many of the books belonged to Sherlock as a child. John susses that Sherlock did not live here most of the time, even if Sherlock refuses to talk about his past.

Over time, they had gone through each pile and Sherlock instructed John which favorites to bring upstairs. The room looks much nicer now, after John’s cleaning tendencies took over. He couldn’t drop books on the floor - he took them to the shelves and stacked them neatly on the floor.

He took the liberty of tidying the lab room as well. Not too much has changed (he’s still a teenage boy after all), but the room looks more comfortable, a place where conversations happen and life flows again. John snagged a tarp of his dad’s from the garage and spent a tedious amount of time pulling one of the tables under the open skylight. Once it had started snowing in earnest, the tarp caught most of the downfall.

He pulls his toboggan back over his ears, the tip of his nose long turned red as small wisps of snow sneak through the edges of the tarp. Finding his spot, he begins to read aloud.

They began this pastime a few weeks after John met Sherlock. After explaining in more detail how draining it was to hold physical objects at length, Sherlock confessed he hadn’t read very many books. Holding John up by his backpack for a few moments was one thing, but a concentrated effort to dig through the shambles of the library had taken him a very long time. Each object he touched pulled a little more vibrancy out of him, for a time. John compared him to a battery that needed recharging, which led to another lesson on modern times.

John hadn’t pried further, choosing to bide his time until Sherlock wanted to talk more about what happens when he loses himself. So far, nothing of the sort had happened while John was there. Sherlock looks and acts perfectly normal (considering) each time John climbs his way up the stairs to what is swiftly becoming his favorite room anywhere.

He flips a page and continues, eyes darting up for a moment to confirm - yes, Sherlock is no longer in the room. Sherlock doesn’t always stay in the room while John reads. The first few times, John stopped reading when he realized he had no audience. Sherlock would pop back into the room and assure him he could hear from any corner of the house. He simply liked to drift sometimes and he always came back before John got tired.

They had read through an eclectic collection of books. John brought his hated chemistry book with him and after he complained enough they came to a compromise. The book laid between them and Sherlock floated on his stomach, telling John when to turn the page. They had gotten through several very boring books this way, but John doesn’t mind. Sherlock delights in the new information he’s absorbing, so John is happy too.

He worries sometimes that he spends too much time here. Looking up from his reading, he notices how many of his own things have migrated to the space. It’s more of a clubhouse for him now than a lab. The neighborhood boys stopped asking him to come out after he refused them for the fifth time and he hasn’t heard from them since. Spending time with Sherlock is fantastic, he isn’t ever bored - but Sherlock is also … different. Ageless almost. John forgets how old Sherlock is when he has to teach him such basic, childish concepts as calculators or toaster ovens.

He’s startled from his thoughts by a crash of metal downstairs.

“Sherlock?” 

Placing the book aside, he gets to his feet, heart thundering. Sherlock appears beside him.

“There’s someone downstairs.”

John whips around to look at him. “What?”

Sherlock shrugs. “It happens. Probably a vagrant looking for some place warm to settle for the night. Must be new here.”

The grin Sherlock gives John unsettles him, then Sherlock is gone.

“Sherlock!”

He sneaks his way downstairs as quietly as possible, wary of making his presence known to an unfamiliar entity. Shuffles come from the kitchen area, then a loud clanging. To John’s ear, it sounds like someone kicked one of the metal pots littering the floor in the kitchen.

John presses against the wall outside the room, against the door frame, listening to the stranger’s harsh breathing. It’s nearly impossible to see with no windows in the room and the evening dim at the door.

As if waiting for John to arrive, whispers and muted laughter scuttle around the room. He holds his breath, knowing he’s in no danger, but he cannot help the shiver of fear dropping down his back with cold beads of sweat.

The stranger goes still and pants. They don’t have to wait long for whispers to crescendo and then a soft glow breathes to life in the far corner of the room. John can faintly see the stranger now, indeed a tramp, as Sherlock guessed.

The outline gains shape and it’s Sherlock, glowing, his face turned to the corner and his shoulders gently hitching. His soft crying sweeps around the room and John furrows his brow in confusion. The stranger looks fearful, placing one foot behind the other in slow retreat.

Sherlock’s cries grow louder until they’re an unnatural moan of terror. John feels sick to his stomach as he looks between Sherlock’s back and the frozen stranger. It wasn’t too long ago John was in a similar terrifying position and his sympathies begin to bend towards the intruder.

_Help me, please. Please help me please._

The cries become words and Sherlock has a rapt audience. Out of madness or morbid curiosity, the vagrant takes a step towards Sherlock, his hand barely outstretched at his side.

“What?” the man rasps, another step closer.

Sherlock turns from the corner, his large hands covering his face while his shoulders continue to shake pitifully. John feels a wave of sorrow overcome him, washing out any fear or benevolence towards the stranger.

_Help me._

The sobs continue until Sherlock is a few feet in front of the man. He stops and the sounds die, the kitchen silent except for the stranger’s ragged breathing. John watches the man raise his hand just a centimeter higher, the lines of terror clear on his ragged face in the light of Sherlock’s glow.

Before he can touch, Sherlock’s hands fall away and John’s stomach drops.

Gone are the inquisitive eyes and upturned nose. Sherlock’s face is _rotting_ , grey skin sliding away from his empty eye sockets. His teeth crumble and fall into his palms when he opens his mouth to scream, the screech burrowing into John’s bones and making his jaw clench painfully tight. He closes his eyes and covers his ears, desperately trying not to cry.

He can barely hear the stranger screaming under Sherlock’s noise and he’s not sure how much time passes before it stops.

A nip of static electricity near his hand forces his eyes open. He’s still covering his ears and Sherlock stands before him, back to normal and looking concerned.

“John, are you alright?”

John blinks and tries to catch his breath.

“Alright? Fucking _of course not_. What the fuck was that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock steps back, hiding confusion with a dismissive look towards the kitchen.

“I got rid of the problem.”

“You could have killed him!” John yells, pointing an accusing finger towards Sherlock’s chest.

Sherlock frowns, anger brewing in his expression. “What on earth do you mean? I _scared_ him, John. He won’t be coming back again and he’ll tell his friends what he saw. If I’m lucky, it will spread to anyone else who might be curious enough to invade my home.”

John crosses his arm, temper rising. “That was _not_ good, Sherlock. All you had to do was tell him to leave. It would have taken a second. Which - by the way - you suspiciously started your show after I took five minutes to get down here.”

The glare he shoots Sherlock could boil water but Sherlock throws his hands up in frustration.

“I can’t understand why you would do such a thing! It’s awful!” John snaps.

“What do you want from me? I’m _dead_ , John. Do you not like reminders of my deceased state? Or do you only like the sanitized version I show to you? My _corpse_ is out there somewhere, looking as I just did. You’re the one who chooses to beg at my heels every other day. If you’re frightened, you should go play with the other children and _leave me alone._ ”

It’s a slap to the face and John stiffens to his full height, still only to Sherlock’s shoulders. He turns abruptly and marches towards the door, hanging open after the vagrant’s retreat. His boots crunch the snow and ice and he focuses on the crisp sounds instead of Sherlock calling out to him.

He doesn’t turn back to look as he treks his way towards the gates, his shouted name blurring until only the wind rushes past his ears.

It’s not until he makes it home that he realizes his backpack with his Walkman and his composition notebook were left at The House. He decidedly does not cry as he sits down to do his homework again, breaking the lead of his pencil too many times.

Frustrated, he gets ready for bed and rips the covers back. He sleeps restlessly and ignores the wind pressing against his window pane, sounding like his name.


End file.
